


Tastes Like Magic

by flintwoodandco



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Kilts, M/M, PWP, Post-Hogwarts, Smut, i have no words at this point
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-17
Updated: 2016-11-17
Packaged: 2018-08-31 08:21:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8571298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flintwoodandco/pseuds/flintwoodandco
Summary: Oliver's in for one hell of a ride





	

Oliver hadn’t wanted to go to the party. Frankly, he was tired of the social life that came with being a Quidditch star and just wished to have an night home. It wasn’t like the players themselves would be paid attention to for the evening anyways, so there was more than one reason why it was pointless to Oliver.

(“You just don’t want to see Flint.”  
“Shut up, Percy.”)

Yet here he is, bored out of his mind as people snap pictures, talking amongst each other like old friends. No one’s fooling anyone though. They’re all here to make whatever appearances needed, Quidditch contracts being held above friendships. And then, there’s Oliver, dressed to the nines, glaring at those he has particular rivalries with from his seat. He flicks a speck of food off his kilt and drinks deeply from his glass, eyes glazing over as he looks around the room.

“Are all your parties this dull?” Percy asks as he sits down next to Oliver.

Somehow, Oliver had managed to convince Percy to come, though he suspected the prospect of free food had to do with it more than anything. Not that he should be the one criticizing. He only came for the alcohol after all. 

This one party in particular is just boring, hosted by the managers of the team in hopes of bringing in more investors. There’s more life when it’s meeting up at a bar after a big game and the players couldn’t care less who sees them. 

With a shrug, Oliver fiddles around with the tablecloth, knowing he’ll be leaving after this last drink. 

“Flint’s been eyeing you all evening, you know.”

Oliver half-turns to his friend, who is digging into yet another plate of food and sighs. “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean.” Percy gives Oliver that look. The one that says _you can’t hide it from me_.

Oliver grunts and goes back to his glass. It had been one drunken night, one confession that if Flint wasn’t such an asshole, Oliver would consider sleeping with him. Percy’s never let him forget it.

“Probably just trying to scare me off. Too bad I haven’t been paying attention.” 

It’s a lie. Oliver has, in fact, met Marcus’ eyes every time the man glanced over at him. Both responded with their own sneers, but neither left the room. Not even once. Percy rolls his eyes and goes back to his food while Oliver starts drinking again.

The evening drags on and just when Oliver’s glass holds one sip left, Percy hesitates before asking, “Is it alright with you if I leave now?”

Sensing Percy’s impatience, Oliver sympathizes and gives him a singular nod. He isn’t too shocked that Percy practically runs off and goes back to focusing on nothing. He’s not sure why he’s in such a sour mood tonight. He’s attended plenty of these parties before, yet something is in the air, suffocating, stiff. 

“Enjoying yourself, Wood?”

Oliver doesn’t turn to the voice, being able to recognize the rough accent from anywhere. “As much as you are, Flint.” He raises an eyebrow when Marcus actually sits down next to him and breathes out through his nose. “What do you want?”

“Easy, Wood.” There’s a small smile on Marcus’ face making Oliver wonder just what he’s playing at. “Just here to have a friendly chat is all.”

Now, Oliver really needs this last sip and tips his head back as he pours the liquid into his mouth. Marcus doesn’t even let Oliver swallow it all before he continues with, “See you’ve been taking advantage of the free bar too.”

“If I have to be in the same room with you all night, I certainly need something to distract myself from the fact,” Oliver bites, finally looking Marcus straight on.

The man is sharply dressed, the black suit framing his body well and not leaving much to the imagination. Even his face is sculpted to perfection with the faint hint of scruff lining his jaw. Oliver tries to ignore this, drumming his fingers on the table instead.

Marcus looks positively amused and Oliver swallows with a click. 

“Didn’t know you needed distracting from me,” Marcus purrs. 

Oliver blushes furiously, attempting to hide it by looking the other way. It’s not until Marcus lets out a breathy laugh that Oliver stares back with frustration.The grin that’s plastered Marcus’ face is almost feral and a single thought consumes Oliver. One that makes him want to forget about past rivalries. 

Caught up in his heated state, Oliver almost misses the comment of, “Let’s take this outside,” and stumbles after Marcus, who leads the way like a soldier into battle.

Oliver’s back slamming against a wall in the alleyway is a shock, but not as much as Marcus kissing him just as fiercely. Marcus’ suit coat is tight in Oliver’s fists and he moans into Marcus’ mouth, letting their tongues mingle as Marcus roughly pulls their hips closer. Their erections rub together and Oliver wonders why this hasn’t happened sooner. With a harsh bite to Marcus’ lower lip, Oliver jerks his head away and stares into Marcus’ eyes, dark and lust-ridden.

“Your place or mine?”

“Mine,” Marcus growls, the apparating a quick process before they stumble into Marcus’ flat. 

Unable to keep their hands off each other, Marcus pins Oliver to the wall just outside the bedroom, sucking at pale skin that is Oliver’s neck. Oliver curses under his breath, his hands grabbing onto Marcus’ hair and he shudders as Marcus’ hands slide up his thighs. As they pass under Oliver’s kilt and over his cock, Marcus stops his movements, only to smirk at Oliver. 

“Didn’t know you went around in public like this.”

“Have to keep with the Scottish traditions,” Oliver gasps as Marcus grabs his ass and pushes their erections together again. He’s sure he can hear Marcus mumble, “So fucking hot,” as they finally make their way into the bedroom, an arduous process amongst their erratic movements. 

This time, Oliver takes charge and pushes Marcus onto the bed, not once taking his eyes off him as he climbs on top. 

“Straight to the point, aren’t we?” Marcus teases, his hands diving back under Oliver’s kilt. 

Oliver can only smile hazily in response, making quick work of the buttons on Marcus’ suit, and lets out a low moan when Marcus grabs his cock to give it an experimental tug. With this, they tear themselves out of their clothing, touching whatever skin they can along the way until Oliver is only left in his kilt and Marcus is naked underneath him. Their groans are so loud when their cocks touch that Oliver hopes Marcus will get a noise complaint in the morning. Wanting to get his last bit of clothing off, Oliver starts to undo the buckle on his belt, but Marcus’ hand on his wrist stops him.

“Keep it on,” Marcus says his voice low and surprisingly gentle. “It’s a good look for you.”

“You flatter me,” Oliver rolls his eyes, grinding their hips together to get another moan out of Marcus. Never again is there going to be a sound he’ll want to hear more than the ones that come out of Marcus tonight. 

When Marcus flips their positions so he’s on top, Oliver has to take a moment to collect himself with Marcus hovering over him. They stare deeply into each other’s eyes, sentimental words almost leaving Oliver’s lips before Marcus pulls back, taking out a small bottle from the bedside drawer.

“Are you always this prepared?” Oliver teases as Marcus coats his fingers with lube, but then freezes the moment a finger brushes his hole.

“Never can be too prepared, Wood. You of all people should know this.” 

If Marcus starts combining Quidditch talk with sex, Oliver’s sure he’ll come on the spot, but his thoughts get scrambled as Marcus slides a finger into him. 

Oliver digs his nails the bedsheets, trying to focus more on the pleasure as Marcus plants kisses on his chest as a distraction. The hiss leaving him is unavoidable though and he grits his teeth while his body gets used to this intrusion. To Oliver’s surprise, Marcus waits to add another finger until Oliver pushes down on the one already inside him, latching his mouth onto one of Oliver’s nipples as well. 

“Oh,” Oliver moans as Marcus swirls his tongue around and then Oliver takes to fucking himself on the one finger Marcus has inside of him.

The second finger seems almost tentative but Oliver growls with impatience and Marcus responds accordingly, finally scissoring Oliver open as his moans fill the room. Kisses trail from Oliver’s chest to his stomach, but he hardly notices, just wanting more of Marcus in him.

It feels like eternity before Marcus gets three fingers in and the slow, rhythmic thrusting begins, Oliver doing his best to move his hips with each push. He becomes so concentrated on the feeling of Marcus’ fingers that he nearly jerks away when Marcus mouths at his cock through the kilt. 

“So jumpy,” Marcus teases and lets out a small laugh when Oliver flips him off. 

However, Oliver doesn’t have much time to stay angry as Marcus’ fingers brush against his prostate. The sensation jolts through Oliver’s entire body and the strangled sound that comes out of his mouth causes him to slap a hand over it. 

“No need to be shy,” Marcus breathes as he moves his fingers to hit Oliver’s prostate again.

With another moan, Oliver flushes but pulls his hand away to tangle it in Marcus’ hair. “Just fuck me already,” Oliver demands and Marcus doesn’t need to be told twice, sitting up immediately. 

Removing his fingers, Marcus flips Oliver so he’s on all fours and lathers up his cock, pushing away the fabric of the kilt. Marcus gives Oliver’s ass a sharp squeeze, which elicits a gasp out of Oliver, before positioning his cock at Oliver’s hole.

“Marcus,” Oliver pleads and his body shudders as Marcus begins to enter him. “F-fuck.”

Oliver hears Marcus chuckle through his own low moan, but ignores it, Marcus’ cock feeling too good as it stretches him. Once Marcus is fully inside, he tugs at Oliver’s shoulders and Oliver lets himself be pulled up, his back colliding with Marcus’ chest. Marcus sucks at the nape of Oliver’s neck with only the occasional, “Fuck, so perfect,” interrupting this action as he rolls his hips. 

Consumed with the feeling of Marcus in him, Oliver’s head falls back onto Marcus’ shoulder and he reaches behind with one hand to grip onto Marcus' hair. With a rough exhale, Marcus grazes his teeth along Oliver’s skin before he takes hold of Oliver’s cock, pumping with each thrust. It’s only then that Oliver thinks about the state of his kilt and moves it out of the way to avoid getting even more pre-cum on it. 

“Oliver,” Marcus sighs as they move together, almost becoming one entity. His free arm holds Oliver close to his chest and Oliver finds his other hand falling on top of Marcus’. 

With a swallow, Oliver lets his moans speak for themselves as the pace begins to pick up. He can feel the muscles in his legs start to weaken, but he’s determined to stay up, if only to prove to Marcus that he can last just as long, if not longer. Marcus’ grunts seem to accept the challenge and Oliver nearly loses himself with Marcus hitting his prostate directly with each thrust. 

Curses pour out of Oliver’s mouth as he nears his climax and he pulls on Marcus’ hair, almost not caring how much it’s hurting Marcus. This only urges Marcus to move faster, their skin slapping together with his undulating hips. Just as Oliver thinks he’s going to burst, he cries out, his release spilling onto Marcus’ hand and all over his kilt. Marcus thrusts a few more times before succumbing to his own orgasm as well, his moan muffled by biting down on Oliver’s shoulder. 

The two stay in their kneeled position, their labored breathing the only sound in the room and Oliver only moves off Marcus’ cock as he remembers his kilt. 

“Fucking soiled it, that’s what you’ve done,” Oliver mutters as he takes it off, but is unable to hide his smile when Marcus gives him a playful shove.

“It’s your own that’s on it. Just use Scourgify.” 

“Yeah, well, if you didn’t have such weird kinks…,” Oliver begins, cleaning himself off with Marcus’ undershirt, and then finds himself being tugged from behind, being made into the little spoon. 

Marcus places a kiss on the back of his neck, pulling the blankets over them before settling his arm around Oliver’s waist. “I’ll make it up to you.”

“Are you saying this is going to happen again?” Oliver jokes as he tosses Marcus’ shirt to the side, only to tense up when he feels a ragged breath leave Marcus. In all honesty, Oliver has a small hope, one wish that…

“If you want it to. I’d like it.” 

Oliver looks over his shoulder at Marcus, whose eyes are closed and his face more peaceful than Oliver’s ever seen it before. 

“Alright, deal,” Oliver responds and feels his heart jump when Marcus smiles slightly. 

As sleep starts to overtake him, all Oliver can think about is how he needs to attend these Quidditch parties more often; especially the ones where he can take full advantage of showing off his Scottish pride to one Marcus Flint.

**Author's Note:**

> Title inspo from P!ATD's song Victorious, which just screams Flintwood. 
> 
> Anyways, this is probably never happening again, but I'm on [Tumblr](http://flintwoodandco.tumblr.com) if you want to check out other things with this ship


End file.
